


The Movement

by yuiseau



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-26 23:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15673266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuiseau/pseuds/yuiseau
Summary: I had a dream a few nights ago and had an itch to base a story off of it. This is the outcome.A disease hits the world hard and fast, where the select few immune have to survive and find their way through their new lifestyles.





	The Movement

**Author's Note:**

> This story is completely based off of a dream I had a few nights ago, hopefully I can capture the feeling for you.

The season was changing. The dry summer air began to shift into a soft autumn breeze as the days creeped on. Bucky shouldered his backpack full of supplies as he hiked through the woods. He hadn't seen any signs of life in a few days, save a few birds and squirrels. Deer were elusive, and his canned goods were running low. But day after day of searching for houses, he hadn't had any luck. 

Trudging through the forest brush was therapeutic, it gave him time to think. If things had been different, Bucky would have sang a tune while he crept on, but the threat of someone hearing was too high. He would never risk the chance of getting himself into trouble.

He got by on enough sleep to keep one foot in front of the other. The forest seemed to be endless, but he knew that wasn't true. Everything must come to an end at some point.

After another long day, Bucky slumped against a sturdy oak and pulled out his last can of beans. He didn't dare to start a fire, the smoke would paint a bright target on his back, so he ate the beans lukewarm. Each spoonful felt like a shot of heroin, something that was so vital to keep him going. Bucky shifted again and went off to sleep, if only for an hour or two.

...

When the sun was high in the sky and Bucky was sweating beneath his jacket, the forest broke into a clearing. A small log house rested perfectly in the middle, which vaguely reminded Bucky of the bedtime stories his mother would read to him when he was young. In the books, the house would look too good to be true. All signs told him to turn around and walk away, but his stomach growled and told him otherwise. A man always followed his stomach.

The front door was unlocked, and Bucky carefully raised his pistol, safety off. Light seeped in through the crochet drapes, giving the interior of the house a dull gloom. The creaking door gave way to Bucky’s force, but he winced at the noise. Floorboards groaned under his weight, and he turned his head left to look into the kitchen. Small stove, wooden counters and cabinets, a wicker fruit bowl full of unknown rotten fruit. That was a good sign. He turned to the right to look into the living room, where two mismatched couches sat facing a small fireplace. He moved to one couch, brushing his fingers along the old fabric. He brought his hand up to inspect the dust that had collected on his fingertips. No one had been here in a while.

The fireplace mantle held a few picture frames of an elderly couple, dressed in what looked like 1940’s style clothing. They must have passed when the Movement started. The pictures only featured the one couple, no children.

Bucky spent the next few minutes carefully exploring the upstairs. Just one bathroom and loft bedroom, with white linens and a handcrafted quilt laid out on the bed. The whole house was pleasantly noisy, it interrupted the constant quiet in Bucky’s mind. When he was satisfied no one else was hiding in the shadows, he slid his pistol back into its holster and relieved himself of his backpack.

Then, he raided the pantry.

Saltine crackers, stale chips, a small assortment of taffy, some small boxes of cake mix, dried beans. Apparently no one had found this house yet, or they hadn't bothered to stop in. The fridge emitted a rank smell, so Bucky found some bleach beneath the sink, covered his nose and mouth with his jacket, and went to work. He shoved all of its contents into a trash bag and threw it outside before bleaching the shit out of it. 

By the time he had finished, the sun was steadily sliding further beyond the horizon, casting long shadows throughout the house. Bucky made sure to lock the door and window latches before heading upstairs. He hadn't slept in a bed in ages. The last house he camped out in was overrun by raiders, looking for food and blood. He slid his hunting knife under his pillow and felt the tension in his body evaporate as soon as he pulled the quilt over his shoulders. 

This could be home.

…

Bucky killed a squirrel.

He captured it in a shifty trap made of string and sticks he learned from his father when he was young. He noticed the squirrel had a nest high up in the branches of a single tree, so he set up a few traps that would catch the squirrel if it had high traction between the tree and the ground. 

When he found the squirrel helplessly flailing in the trap, he felt sorry for it. But it was the squirrel's survival or his, so he made sure to give it a quick death and thanked the Earth for its life.

That evening, he heated up a pot of water, mixed in the vegetable stock he found, and made a disgusting squirrel soup that filled him up so much he felt like he could have burst. His body was used to eating such small portions, it didn't know what to do with the protein Bucky was throwing at it.

The days kept coming, and Bucky finally felt a sense of stability since the Movement. He knew how much food he had, he had a well in the backyard that served as a constant source of water, and the house was secluded and protected him from the elements. He thanked whatever God existed that he found that house. 

He fell into a comfortable routine, completely different from his routine in the woods. Trapping was easy with such plentiful wildlife, and he found himself gaining back some of the weight he had lost voyaging.

While Bucky was out checking his traps, he heard the snapping of sticks in the forest. He assumed the noise came from a rabbit, or a squirrel, so he backed up a few paces hoping to catch it in a trap. The crackling of leaves didn't stop, so he inched closer to the noise. There, between two raspberry bushes, was a small mutt of a dog. Its jowls drooped low, which dragged down its face to make it look sunken. Bucky’s brows drew together as he looked into its curious brown eyes. If there was a healthy dog running around, that meant an owner wasn't far behind. Food sources were too scarce to have a stray dog fed happily.

“Go,” Bucky whispered, flapping his hands at the dog urgently. “You have to leave. Go. Run away.”

The dog stared up at him stupidly, watching his movements with indifference. Bucky felt panic rise in his stomach. He needed the dog far away from his place, before the owner came snooping.

Pretending to jump at the dog, he raised his voice. “Go!”

No response came from the mutt. The panic was driving Bucky mad. He looked around, wildly searching for an owner. No one was in sight, so he scooped the dog into his arms, grunting with the weight and sprinted to the house. If the dog went missing, that might drive the owner to search in an opposite direction, enough for Bucky to pack up his things and run. 

The door swung open and Bucky already had a plan in his head. First, the essentials. He grabbed his backpack and slipped his knife in his pants pocket, immediately trusting its familiar, heavy weight at his side. His pistol already sat in the holster at his hip. He shoved a few pieces of clothing into his bag, enough to get him through the winter when the season came.

Running down the stairs, he passed by the dog, now sitting on one of the couches with its head resting on the top cushions. It seemed to watch him with mocking eyes, as if it knew he was screwed.

Bucky scoured the pantry and frantically looked for any food items that would be easy to eat on the run. In the end, he settled for scooping the top two shelves into a plastic grocery bag and called it a day. He didn't bring much in the first place, so he wasn't leaving with much more. 

Bucky took one more look around and convinced himself that it was safer to leave than to stay and fight. Life was unfair, he rightfully found the house first, but whoever owned the dog wouldn't listen to that. He turned to the front door and reached for the doorknob, before stopping dead in his tracks.

A voice.

A man's voice, close enough to be heard through the open windows of the house. Bucky jolted away from the knob as if it was on fire and ran to the kitchen window. His eyes carefully traced the line of the forest for the man, and found him not even 50 meters from the house. He was calling for “Cap", Bucky assumed the name of the dog, which was now wagging its tail. Bucky watched the man stop in his path as his eyes landed on the house. While he took it in, Bucky took the time to analyze every possible feature about the man.

He looked around Bucky’s age, late 20's or early 30's. From the distance he was standing, it was difficult to tell his exact height, but he definitely wasn't lacking in muscle. He carried a backpack, large enough to carry a pistol but not a shotgun. No holsters. Cropped hair which was cut recently, so he had knives on him. His clothes were torn in odd places. He must have been running pretty quick to not care about all the tears.

The man gave a conflicted look towards the forest, then stepped to inspect something in the brush. Bucky watched him pull at one of his traps, then look back at the house. 

Bucky had to make a decision now, and fast. He could risk it, sprint out the front door and not stop until his legs gave out, or he could stay. The man didn't know exactly what he had in the house. Surely after surviving the Movement he would know not to fuck with someone who might have a gun.

The man outside took a tentative step out into the clearing towards the house, reaching into the pocket of his pants, most likely for a knife.

Bucky licked his dry lips. Now or never.

“I have your dog!” Bucky shouted, watching the man’s eyes widen in concern.

The man schooled his features into something more determined. “I don’t want any trouble, just my dog.”

Bucky considered the man's words. They didn't seem completely empty, and Bucky could tell by his body language that the dog held a place close to his heart.

“Where are you coming from?” Bucky asked.

The man chose his words carefully. “Outside of Grey Rock. Got run over by hunters and I didn't want a part of it. I went off on my own with my dog.” He breathed heavy for a few seconds. “You said you had him? If you let him go, I'll turn and walk the other way, I swear it on my life.”

The dog walked to the front door and sat patiently, waiting for Bucky to make a move. The man seemed sincere. Bucky remembered how connected he was to his own dog, before shit hit the fan. It's not something he would like to ruin for someone else.

“If I open this door and let him go, you won't come back here. I have a gun, I'll shoot you the moment I see you. If I find out you're lying and have friends hiding out in the woods, I'll make sure your death is long and slow. You hear me? I didn't join the military for shits and giggles.”

The man nods his head quickly, “Yeah, understood completely.”

Bucky sighed. This was the dumbest mistake of his life, but he didn't have the heart to do anything else. He flicked the lock on the door and turned the knob. The door creaked open, and he looked at the man, frozen in the clearing. 

“You stay far away from this house.” Bucky warned, and gave the dog a shove out the door with his foot. The dog waddled over to the man, who was waiting for him with his arms open wide. Bucky watched them greet each other with licks and scratches behind the ears. The man looked back up.

“Thank you. I'll get out of your hair, and I swear you'll never see me again.” He flashed a smile and Bucky suddenly realized how handsome the man was. The smile lit up his face and warmed his features, something Bucky didn’t get to see every day. He could feel an invitation on the tip of his tongue, but went with his better judgement and bit it back. No need to get familiar with a stranger who could still be dangerous. But that didn't stop a man from wanting to. Bucky watched the man stalk back to the forest, the dog, Cap, on his heels. 

Before Bucky could talk himself out of it, he yelled, “Bucky!” The man turned his head and raised a questioning eyebrow. Mentally kicking himself, he kept going. “Name’s Bucky.”

The man quirked a smile. “Nice to meet you. I'm Steve. Stay safe out there, Bucky.”

And just like that, he was gone.

…

Bucky stayed on high alert for a few days, scanning the edge of the woods and always bringing his pistol with him when he checked his traps. Logically he knew that Steve wouldn't come back, but deep down there was a small hope that Bucky would see him again. Living in the forest with nothing but his own mind to keep him company was boring. He found a few board games in the house a day after Steve left, and had been playing them by himself just to keep his mind stimulated. 

A month after Steve left, Bucky settled back into a comfortable routine. He stopped checking the forest every day, and began to chop down trees. His firewood pile was getting taller and taller, and with each new log he felt more prepared for the upcoming winter. November was right around the corner, and December wasn't far behind. Winters were known to be long and cold in the region, and he didn't want to take any chances. He got lucky with the living room having a fireplace, or else he would have to survive covered in blankets constantly. 

Bucky knew it would storm. He saw the clouds forming around noon, angry and grey, and soon enough they exploded in a flurry of snowflakes. He threw a few logs into the fireplace and lit them using the box of matches he found in a cabinet. The front door was locked along with all the windows, but he checked to make sure. The fire would show any wanderers his location, but the snowstorm masked the smoke pretty well.

Bucky pulled the mattress from the room down the stairs and in front of the fireplace, close enough to feel the warmth but far enough away to not catch the damn thing on fire. The house had cooled past the freezing point, and Bucky was sick of chattering his teeth.

He pulled his blanket up to his chin and settled so he was facing the fire. No more work could have been done that day, so he drifted off to sleep and dreamed of life before the Movement.

Becca had just come home from school. Her dark hair was pulled into pigtails. The minute she walked through the front door, Bucky could feel her buzzing with energy.

“Bucky! Guess what happened at school today?” She said, eyes wide and innocent. Bucky paused the television so he could focus on her.

“Let me guess, you beat up that annoying girl Lucy?” Becca shook her head. “You got an A on your spelling test?” She shook her head a little slower, looking down for a moment. Bucky smiled. “Uh oh… Ben talked to you today?” Becca jumped up and down.

“YES! He asked me for a pencil! I put one in my pencil pouch this morning, just in case, and thank God I did, because in science he leaned over and said, ‘Hey Becca, could I borrow a pencil?’ And guess what? I said, ‘Yeah, of course.’ Can you believe it?”

Bucky huffed out a laugh. Becca had talked about that kid, Ben, for months. “Making some real progress with him, huh Becca?”

She grinned. “Yup! First conversation is always the hardest, that's what Ma used to say, remember?”

Bucky stood up from the couch and nodded. “Sure do.”

His Ma passed away two years ago from lung cancer. Becca took it hard, but being so young she bounced back relatively quick. Bucky couldn't say the same about himself.

“Are you hungry?”

Becca beamed. “I was going to walk across the street to go to the café with Rosie and her mom. Rosie told me that her mom is a writer. She wrote a book!” 

Bucky smiled, knowing how much Becca loved writing. Ever since she was a little kid she told him that she wanted to grow up and write stories, so saying no to her eager face was too difficult.

“Just make sure you're back by 5, okay? And if something goes wrong, you know my number. I'll come pick you up.”

She nodded and grabbed her coin pouch from the bowl sitting atop the table. “Will do, see ya later!”

Bucky settled back down on the couch and let out a long breath. Caring for Becca was easier than he thought it would have been, but working from home was driving him mad. He went to boot camp to help America, yet there he was organizing a website for a new business. It paid well enough, but his fingers itched to feel a gun again, to fight for his country. Becca needed stability though, and Bucky was the only one that could provide that for her.

Bucky's dog Winter must have heard Becca come home, he staggered his way down the stairs to give Bucky and expecting look.

"You missed her, bud. She just headed out."

Winter stared at him stupidly before climbing up next to Bucky on the couch. He clicked the remote and his movie continued.

Halfway through The Hobbit, the television glitched. Confused, Bucky took the remote and slapped it a few times against his palm. The screen jumped about, as if the connection was cut, but suddenly the picture became clear again. But it wasn't The Hobbit.

An emergency news report? Bucky’s brows furrowed. He checked the weather earlier and there wasn't supposed to be a single cloud in the sky. The woman on the screen began to speak in a hurried tone.

“-reports showing 90% of the population is affected, and we aren't sure how the disease is spreading yet. I just got news that London has already fallen, along with Paris, Moscow, Tokyo, Mumbai, and Sydney. The US has been the last country to get hit, for now the disease is hitting Los Angeles, Miami, Atlanta, Detroit, New York…”

Bucky’s heart was in his throat. He fumbled for his phone, before he remembered he didn't ask Becca for Rosie's mom's number. He ran to the front door and flung it open, praying Becca was standing on the front step, waiting for him. Instead, he was greeted with car wheels screeching down the road, some people running, and yelling to their relatives. Bucky shut the door.

The television was still on, the woman now breathing hard into the microphone in a panic. The people behind her were screaming as gunshots rang out. 

She made one last effort to get her point across.

“You need to lock your loved ones in separate rooms. If any of you are immune, it will increase your chances of surviving. Craig, turn the camera off. Cra-"

The TV switched back to The Hobbit and Bucky stared at the screen in horror. Becca was out there. Becca was out there, and he needed to find her.

He ran to his room and dug his backpack out from the bottom of his closet. It used to hold his books and folders, but now he threw his hunting knife and his pistol in the pockets, filling the rest with clothes, food, and water. He included a couple of items for Becca, for when he found her.

While he was pulling his boots on at the couch, frantic knocks came from the door. Bucky pulled his pistol in front of himself and clicked the safety off, aiming it at the door. The knocking continued, faster and louder. When he opened the door, Becca stood there, pale with wide eyes, clutching her backpack straps in white knuckles. Bucky opened his mouth to tell her how relieved he was to see her, before he felt his breath leave his body.

The blast from the gun was so loud, it took Bucky a second to understand the situation. As soon as the front of Becca’s shirt was painted red, he knew.

And Bucky hadn't felt pain like that since his Ma passed.

The knocking continued as Bucky woke up, sweating and breathing hard. He wasn't in his house, he was in the log cabin in the woods. He groped for his pistol in the light of the dying fire, clicking the safety off. A weak knock came from the door again and Bucky bristled. Hunters were here, they were going to kill him and take his house and his food. They must have seen the fire from the chimney.

He approached the door and prepared himself to whip it open and shoot at whoever was behind it. He wasn't taking any chances. His fingers tightened around the brass knob and turned.

His finger was ready to pull the trigger, before he hesitated. 

5 years in the military, and he fucking hesitated.

The dog was the first one to come in, already familiar with the house. Bucky watched Steve attempt to say something, but he didn't even have enough energy to keep his head up. Bucky’s finger still hovered over the trigger of his pistol.

“Steve?” Bucky asked, taking him in. He was dressed sparingly and a cut had blossomed over his eyebrow. He was shivering, and Bucky realized just how bad the storm had gotten. He dragged Steve's near lifeless body into the house and slammed the door to keep the snow out.

“What are you doing here? I told you if you ever came back I would shoot you dead on the spot.” Bucky hissed out between his teeth. Steve's eyes were glazed over and unseeing. His body was shaking so much, Bucky wondered if he was having a seizure, but he knew it was from hypothermia.

“Steve? Can you hear me?” Bucky tried again, pulling the unresponsive man towards his mattress by the dying fire. He placed 2 more logs on the fire before looking back at Steve. His eyes were unfocused, but he muttered out an indiscernible reply.

Bucky moved closer to hear. “What was that?”

Steve let out a shuddering breath before mumbling, “S-s-sorry, Bucky.”

“Sorry about what? Showing up at my doorstep half dead in the middle of the worst snowstorm I've ever lived through?” Bucky snarked.

Steve exhaled quickly, hopefully a laugh. “Yeah, I promised,” his body shook again uncontrollably, “wouldn't be back.”

Bucky slowly stripped Steve's cold, wet jacket off, shaking his head. “You could have died.”

Steve just nodded his head and didn't respond. At some point, Cap had settled down next to them on the mattress and warily watched Bucky try to raise Steve's temperature. His whole body was frozen, but Bucky noticed that Steve had tied a shirt around Cap’s body in the hope of keeping him warm. It worked, apparently.

Bucky stood and walked to the kitchen to grab a pot. He didn't grab enough water before the storm hit, but he opened the door, filled the pot with some snow, and returned to the fire to melt it. He poured the water into a cup and handed it to Steve, who was somewhat regaining control of his body. While Steve drank, Bucky searched his backpack.

Steve didn't carry much, and he was running low on food. Bucky was mainly looking for a gun or a knife, of which he found neither.

“Do you have a knife on you?” Bucky asked. Steve pushed his body up into a sitting position and reached towards his pocket. Bucky bristled, but Steve put his hands up.

“Grabbing my knife, calm down. I'll give it to you.” Steve extracted a long, jagged knife from his pocket and handed it handle-first to Bucky. 

“Where the fuck do you even get a knife like this?” Bucky asked, turning the thing over in his hands. It looked less like a knife and more like a shank the more he looked at it.

Steve chuckled. “Some guy gave it to me a while back. I had nothing when the Movement hit, I just picked up and ran as far as I could until my legs stopped working. That knife has seen some better days, but it got me this far so I'm not complaining.”

“Ain't that right…” Bucky slumped into the cushions of the couch, watching Steve warm his hands by the fire. He should have left the guy out in the snow to die. He didn't have enough food to feed them both, plus the dog. He didn't even fully trust the guy yet. But in the back of his mind, he could hear Becca thanking him for saving a life. He could almost see her smile.

“Steve-” Bucky started, but Steve cut him off.

“Listen, I know this was a huge risk for you. I really am sorry for knocking on your door, I swore I wouldn't come back. But the storm hit so fast, and I had nowhere to go. I couldn't go back to that camp, I had a falling out with the guys there and had to leave because they wanted to kill Cap. I promised I would stay away from your house but I was walking in circles looking for shelter out there when I saw the smoke. Seriously man, it was like a sign from God.” Steve took a deep breath. “I can leave as soon as the storm passes, if you'd like. I'm just thankful you haven't shot me yet.”

“Woulda been a better death than hypothermia, in my opinion.” Bucky joked, and Steve cracked a smile.

“Probably.”

Bucky let out a sigh and straightened up on the couch. “Listen,” he wrung his hands out in his lap, “I'm not gonna kick you out. But if you try any funny business, your life is fuckin’ over. You leave after the storm passes. You can't take my canned food, but if a squirrel was dumb enough to get caught in my trap during the storm, you can grab it on your way out.”

Sighing, Steve gave Bucky a relieved smile. “Thank you. I'm sorry again for intruding.”

“Ain't nothing. It's been pretty lonely out here, anyways.” Bucky blushed, “You're good company.”

Bucky glanced up to Steve's eyes where fire danced in his irises. His face held a warmth that Bucky had been missing for years, and he couldn't tell if it was from the heat of the fire or from a blush. Either way, Bucky had a work of art sitting across from him on a mattress in his living room. And for the first time in years, he wasn't alone.

Bucky cleared his throat and nodded his head to Steve. "Get some rest. You need it."

Steve swallowed and nodded before trying to stand up. He struggled to find his footing.

"What the hell are you doing?" Bucky asked, watching Steve with an unimpressed look.

Steve fell back onto his hands. "I'm moving to the couch, I'm not going to sleep here."

"I'm sleeping on the couch. Better vantage point of you try to slit my throat in the middle of the night." Bucky shrugged.

Steve grinned. "Makes sense. I'll try to keep my murderous tendencies at bay. Thank you again."

The man settled down on the mattress and pulled the quilt up to his waist. Bucky didn't feel tired.

"G'night Bucky," Steve whispered, barely audible above the crackling flames.

"Night, Steve."

**Author's Note:**

> I'll keep updating, I'm certainly not a writer but I sure am a perfectionist. Let me know what you want. Comments always appreciated!


End file.
